Cum Grano Salis
by Periphery
Summary: Salazar Slytherin leaves Hogwarts. Someone is there to say farewell. Not what you are thinking.


_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Happy?_

_A/N: It's the night before finals and I'm in a hurry, so please forgive any mistakes. And I ship Salazar/Helga because it's just so sweet. That might clear this up a bit._

_The title is a Latin phrase meaning "with a grain of salt." Legends should be taken . . . _

* * *

**Cum Grano Salis**

_February 19, 1007_

It wasn't natural for Hogwarts School to be so quiet.

Most everybody was abed, of course; it was far too early for any being that was not nocturnal to be about. The first weak rays of sunlight were just peeping over the horizon when he closed the front doors behind him, trunk shrunk to the size of a button in his pocket, brand-new – and rather uncomfortable – broomstick in hand. He breathed in a great lungful of the new morning air and let it out slowly. Peace.

He turned for one last look at the castle. What a hectic life he had led in there. What a chaotic life awaited at his destination. He resolved to enjoy every quiet moment that came his way.

"Salazar."

Salazar jumped and whirled around. "Oh," he breathed, trying to calm his pounding heart. "Godric." He strode around the other man and stood facing away from both him and the castle. _I should have known he'd be here._

"Salazar –" Godric said again, but Salazar cut him off.

"You never call me that." His full name was too much of a mouthful, Godric always said. He was probably right.

"I do when I'm angry at you."

Salazar raised an eyebrow, which was largely pointless since he was facing away. "Like you are now?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Like I am now."

"Then why are you here?"

Godric huffed in impatience. "Because this is ridiculous, Salazar. Yes, that argument was bad, but it's no reason to _leave – _your _life _is here –"

"Oh!" Salazar spun in a panic. He had shared so much with the other man for so long that he had forgotten Godric didn't yet know about – events. Normally he would not have hesitated to wake his friend up in the middle of the night, if only so that Godric would not have had to get the news secondhand, but -- "You've got it all wrong. This isn't even about that!"

"Then what – "

Dropping the broomstick, Salazar rummaged in his pocket and stuffed a letter into Godric's hand.

Godric glanced it over. "Wonderful. What's-his-face will be taking over classes and assuming temporary House leadership – very kind of you to think of that, but it doesn't really pertain to the matter at hand."

"Sorry, wrong letter." Salazar fumbled in a different pocket. "And _his face_ is called Edward, he graduated top of his class, and if you call him 'what's-his-face' again – "

"You'll run away and leave us to deal with him?" Godric invoked the old threat with a ghost of a smile, reaching out to take the second letter Salazar handed him.

In spite of himself, Salazar laughed. "Looks like you committed the cardinal sin one too many times."

"Indeed," Godric agreed.

Salazar watched him scan the letter. It was hard to believe, just now, that they had not said a word to each other in two weeks. Even if they had been speaking, though, he knew he never would have been able to find the words to say, _My father is dying, and I must go to him._

The compassion in Godric's eyes when he looked up brought Salazar to the verge of tears – again. "Oh, Sal . . . "

The old, familiar nickname – the one only his best friend had ever used – was the last straw. Salazar gulped and, blinking rapidly, turned away again. He seemed to be doing a lot of that.

Godric's hand landed on his shoulder, large, warm, and comforting; and Salazar closed his eyes momentarily in an attempt to stop hot tears sneaking out from under the lids. He was seriously sleep-deprived, he decided. He considered taking a nap right there on the grass. Maybe when he woke, he wouldn't feel so . . . .

A soft voice broke his reverie. "If there's anything I can – "

"No." Salazar shook his head roughly. Somehow Godric had worked his way around and was now facing him. "Just," Salazar said, "just . . . keep an eye on my students for me."

"I will."

"Margaret." Salazar thought of his daughter, only nine months old. "Don't let Helga lose _too _much sleep – "

"Don't worry about it. We'll look after them." Godric's hand was still on his shoulder; Salazar found himself reluctant to shrug his friend away. The silence stretched between them, and he couldn't bring himself to turn and leave.

"You said goodbye to them, I assume," Godric said finally.

"Of course."

"Good. If you hadn't, I'd have had to make you. Rowena?"

"No." Salazar felt slightly abashed. "Truthfully, I was hoping to slip out without running into either one of you."

"Why?"

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

"Why?" Godric persisted.

Salazar sighed. "Because, that's why. Just because." He considered telling Godric he was glad, after all, that he had turned up; but Godric probably already knew that.

"I'm deeply offended, you know."

"I know." Salazar smiled, and Godric smiled back.

"Owl when you arrive."

"Mother hen."

"Thank you; I do try."

Salazar laughed again. "I will. Farewell, Godric."

"Farewell, Sal."

Salazar paused just before mounting his broomstick. "How _did_ you find me?"

Godric flipped a hand dismissively. "Instinct. Natural talent. Divination. And you weren't exactly quiet when you stubbed your toe outside our bedroom door."

"I did not stub my toe," Salazar said with dignity.

Godric raised an eyebrow.

"I merely had an unpleasant encounter with that hideous thing Rowena calls 'art.'"

"Oh, Sal." Godric chuckled. "It hasn't been nearly as much fun teasing the ladies alone."

"Time enough for that when I return," Salazar promised; and then he was gone, looping once around the towers of the castle and leaving it behind.

* * *

_May 24, 1007_

For the rest of her life, Rowena would remember exactly where she was and what was happening when the owl came.

It was just past noon, and a third year Transfiguration class was coming to a close. She was just about to inquire (somewhat acidly, if truth be told) of Matthew Broderick just _how_ he had managed to turn his partner that interesting shade of purple when the windowpane rattled, and half the class whirled around to look.

Rowena knew instantly that the large, drab barn owl carried bad news. Once she had read the letter and thoroughly alarmed her students by turning very pale, she dismissed class ten minutes early and went to find Helga and Godric.

Helga was easy; she also had a class just before lunch. Rowena swept into the greenhouse, rudely startling the first years who were trying to keep little Margaret away from their freshly potted daffodils. She scooped Salazar and Helga's daughter into her arms and announced, "Class dismissed."

"_You're _not our teacher," one rebellious boy pointed out.

Rowena fixed him with her patented glare. Whether it was that or the hurried manner in which she had entered she did not know, but the first years scattered in record time.

Helga looked at her warily from her worktable across the room. "What is it?"

Rowena opened her mouth and closed it again. Margaret, in her arms, squirmed to be let down. Much to her father's chagrin, the girl had inherited Helga's love for good clean dirt.

"We got the news about his father two days ago," Helga said, in a what-else-can-have-happened tone. "So it's not that. What is it?"

_How,_ Rowena thought desperately, _does one tell her best friend that her husband is dead?_

Something must have knocked him out of the air, they said. Dragons had been sighted in the area recently, but no-one could know for sure. He had been found in a small glen just outside the village – the one where the children often went to play. The fall, according to the collective opinions of the local barber, midwife, and Healer, had instantly broken his neck. With the aid of the monogrammed _SS_ on his robes and a few parents with children at the school, he had been identified as Salazar Slytherin.

The village of Golspie sent their most sincere condolences.

* * *

_May 28, 1007_

Incongruously, the sun was shining when they brought Salazar's body to Hogwarts. Rowena was waiting at the gates with a carefully composed face and a murmur of sincere thanks for the two wizards who had borne the body all that way. They respectfully declined her offer of food and rest, saying they had family to visit in Hogsmeade.

Helga would be down in a moment, Rowena knew. Her friend had not been able to endure the hours of waiting, especially not with a year-old baby to attend to – Margaret's first birthday would be tomorrow. Some of the students were helping now, but the announcement to them had only been made the night before. It had taken Godric that long to work up the courage. Still he had not been able to get through it without his voice cracking painfully.

_Godric, of all people, _Rowena thought with a sigh. She realized she was still levitating the covered body and began to move with it towards the place, just outside the forest, where Godric had dug a grave. He had thrown himself into that and the crafting of the casket, doing both by hand and refusing any offers of help.

Salazar's body would need to be buried as soon as possible; magical preservation could only last so long. They had prepared the student's to assemble for the funeral – a small affair – at a moment's notice. Not yet, though. _Not yet._

The front door slammed shut – that would be Helga. Godric was coming as well, cresting the rise that lay between the gates and the castle. Rowena stopped and let them come to her, looking down at the cloth that covered her old friend. She supposed it had once been white. She did not move it.

After all, she had not seen him in three months, and had barely spoken to him for weeks beforehand. Godric and Helga had had their chances. This was her last and best opportunity to say goodbye.

_finis_

* * *

_So yeah, not your normal interpretation of events._

_Comments, complaints, questions – please review!_


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